Several months ago, we borrowed a car seat for our Goddaughter’s visit, and when the rightful owner didn’t want it back, it sat in our dining room waiting to be taken to Goodwill. It was definitely out of place and actually kind of creepy, so our friends inevitably made comments when they came over for drinks. “Why do you two have a baby seat?” if they were being polite, or “What’s with the creepy car seat?” if they were being honest, or more likely, “Ummm, you guys, what the actual fuck?”
The day finally arrived when I got tired of looking at a toddler’s car seat in the corner of my dining room, so I threw it in the trunk, along with several bags of clothing, ready for donation. The nice lady at Goodwill helped me unload and asked if anything was breakable, if all the shoes had mates, if the clothing was for both men & women, if I needed a receipt…she was very thorough and quite chipper. Then I went for the car seat and her whole demeanor changed. Her face became so serious and she started whispering. I had to lean in to make sure I could hear her, and I realized my tone was becoming increasingly somber as well. What was going on? “We don’t take car seats,” she said as she looked around. I didn’t know who she expected to see. Was someone watching us? “Ummm, OK, do you know where I can take it?” She looked around again. “There’s a place across the street called The Answer that accepts car seats. They do, you know, adoptions. You can take it there.” Her voice was even softer this time, and I was struggling to hear her over the din of the traffic and noisy seagulls that hovered by the dumpster. “Well, OK, how far down is it?” “Just across the street, you can’t miss it, it’s called The Answer…” and she mumbled something else as she scurried back into Goodwill. I had somehow offended her or frightened her or something. It was a weird interaction, but I needed to get this stupid car seat out of my trunk before I could fill it with groceries, so I immediately left Goodwill in search of The Answer.
She was right, The Answer was just across the street, next to a used car lot. Apparently no one was interested in buying a car just a few weeks before tax day, so the entire staff was standing around in the parking lot, swapping lies, smoking cigarettes, drinking Red Bull, shooting the breeze. There were probably about five or six white dudes, one in his early twenties, the rest in their late fifties, all corn-fed Indiana Hoosiers. These guys were in no hurry to sell cars. They were definitely more interested in watching the drama unfold at The Answer on a regular basis. Two young women were walking away from the building and getting back into their car, one on the phone and crying. It was clearly a crisis and The Answer had failed them. I looked back at the used car lot to find all of these dudes shamelessly staring at the three of us. What a bunch of self-righteous, judgmental asshats. I got out of my car and walked toward the door to inquire about donations. I was halfway down the walk when I noticed the sign in the window that said “CLOSED” and the FOR SALE sign in the front yard. FML. As I turned around to head back to my car, I noticed each and every one of car salesmen staring right at me, shaking their heads, wondering what I was going to do with my poor unborn child and how I would cope with the rest of my pitiful, insignificant life. The Answer had failed me, too, they thought. It took every once of restraint not to tell these douchenoggins to go fuck themselves.
What have I learned from this experience? Used car salesmen have earned their sleazy reputation, Goodwill only accepts clothing, shoes, and household goods, my friends are awfully blunt about housekeeping and family planning, and The Answer (a misnomer) is closed indefinitely.
Cooking with Vertigo 